Gospel According to S.

 

Counting the triumphant denials

tearing the viscera with a lacent’s precision

bringing  new hopes as future defeats

I walk in the universe.

What we were deprived of is what moves us

towards that side of the moon

with a local low level and raised lips.

O dark root of optimism

how much longer shall you grow in arid soil

ramifying infinity with the illusion of being?

 

A dead armchair is equal to millions of voices

and an extinct torch to thousands of raging photons

yet affection is two letters ahead

and the throne a rustle without the body.

O generation, spiny chicory of erebus

O generation, slain wild beast in the throat of God

O generation, perplexed  and  computerized

mirrored in stagnant waters fayum-like.

 

And where bombarding beehives, there “peace” trumpets forth

and where crystallized limbs, there outflow rivers

of “freedom”

and when on the table “injustice” is slaughtered

the innocent dine on crumbs of righteousness

and when they sound “mercy”

comes caisson disease.

You always dismiss your demon servant

as you affirmed during the war.

 

He who cries “my poor sides!”

will be quelled by the beauty of her bared parts.

And she who mourns for the constellation of Centaur

the splinters of his skin will be  rundoing.

For who can stop a beast pouncing on its prey

and the victim’s desire to be marauded?

Blessed are the hungry and thirsty  for love

and satiated they are.

 

And finally whoever  is humiliated by the pace of a lizard

sunning itself

whoever is still moved by a dewdrop’s will

to hover on the leaf of its fate

whoever still wonders

“Who knows what experience has in store for us?”

he’ll emerge from the kingdom  of heaven

worshipping not knowing what.

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